


you can have it all (my empire of dirt)

by scorpiod



Category: Vampire Diaries (TV)
Genre: Bloodplay, Canon-Typical Violence, F/F, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-03
Updated: 2013-05-03
Packaged: 2017-12-10 05:27:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/782330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scorpiod/pseuds/scorpiod
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Katherine doesn't appreciate Elena's impression of her, but she supposes it was inevitable.</p>
            </blockquote>





	you can have it all (my empire of dirt)

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers up to 4x18. Written for the Elena Exchange at [](http://ialwayssurvive.livejournal.com/profile)[**ialwayssurvive**](http://ialwayssurvive.livejournal.com/) for [](http://fluffyfrolicker.livejournal.com/profile)[**fluffyfrolicker**](http://fluffyfrolicker.livejournal.com/) for the prompt: _elena/katherine (or elena + katherine): the correct answer to a mirror is always, yes_. Lots of thanks goes to my beta [](http://opheliahyde.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://opheliahyde.livejournal.com/)**opheliahyde** for holding my hand, being my muse and beta'ing this fic at the last moment. Titles comes from Nine Inch Nails' _Hurt_.
> 
> Takes place around/during _American Gothic_ but goes weirdly AU during that episode was well. This prompt really got away from me and I am not sure how well it works with your prompt, but I really enjoyed writing this and I hope you like it  <3

Elena’s high heels clack together when she slips them on ( _her heels, she reminds herself_ )—once, twice, like Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz, only there’s no going home, no man behind the curtain, no red slippers—just vampires playing dress up in human clothes.

(they’re all playing dress up, really)

Elena has her jacket and her jewelry, as well, her bracelets and necklace dangling off her. She mimes Katherine’s smile the best way she can (she won’t admit this, but it’s a good impression—Katherine can only see the cracks because she knows where to look under the performance and see the falsity—the only problem is that there’s not much else there anymore, just layers and layers of performance).

Elena smiles at her when she catches her staring, head cocked to the side and she can see Elena’s face working, the way she dials up the smile and twists her lips into something sharper, eyes colder—like she learning from Katherine right now, the unwitting teacher, anything she does fodder for her. She’s always been irritatingly familiar, but always in all the wrong ways, and now she’s closer than ever and it bothers her more. She puckers her lips at her, blows her a kiss.

“How do I look?” she asks, curling her fingers around her hair, toying with it, touching it like it’s not her hair and she’s trying to make sure the wig fits. “Did I get the make up right?”

She’s talking to Rebekah ( _it pisses her off, simmering and glowering with poorly concealed contempt—it’s more than just the helplessness, the anger at herself for walking into this situation, for thinking Elena may be too consumed with grief to think straight—Katherine didn’t get a bodyguard, she didn’t get anyone to help her, no bargains with anyone—just endless running_ ).

“You look like a child,” Katherine says, rolling her eyes—because she does, a child playing dress up in big sister’s clothes. “Do you really think you can pass as me with just my outfit and makeup?”

She wants to reach over and tear out her throat, show her how it’s done ( _it’s not the clothes that make the monster; this isn’t just a costume_ ).

But Elena giggles and flips her hair back, looks at her like she’s the dressing room mirror, and she must absolutely match up. Can’t help it. Mirrors reflect, how can she not match up. It’s inevitable.

“It shouldn’t be hard,” she says. “I know you.”

_I suppose neither of us are an original copy._

Elena acts like she owns the place, wearing her face and clothes, like she can crawl into a cocoon and emerge a different person, but she’s sitting across the table from two people who destroyed her, and nothing really belongs to either of them.

 

***

 

The first time Katherine sees her again—as a fresh new vampire, reeking of newborn—she thinks she’s there for vengeance—that the angry, grief stricken baby vampire had turned reckless in her grief, thought she could somehow kill her running on pure rage and loss (or maybe she just didn’t care anymore, about killing Katherine; suicide missions have always been her thing, Katherine would be happy to grant that wish).

( _I will always look out for myself; if you’re smart you’ll do the same._ It’s not her fault Elena didn’t follow her advice.)

She wants to kill her, of course. She’s always wanted to kill her, even after it stopped being necessary, out of anger or annoyance or some narcissistic desire that Katherine knows she has no right to, hating the way Elena’s face would change and shift and move in ways she’s long since given up.

(The feeling is mutual, she is sure.)

_Petrova_ , Katherine thinks, but she doesn’t see _family_ when she looks at her—not a long lost descendant, doesn’t think of her daughter’s crying face that she only saw for a moment before she was snatched away.

Katherine just sees herself, staring back.

It feels good to snap that pretty little neck, the sharp crack it makes, the way her body drops ( _that’s never been her face to claim, but she still wants to rip it off hers_ ).

 

***

 

“Do you honestly feel nothing for this girl,” Elijah says, lecturing, like she somehow needs a lesson on _emotions_ , like he needs to come by and teach her empathy (what good did empathy ever do for her). He stares down at the facsimile of a corpse on the floor, Elena all splayed out and quiet for once, her body unnervingly on the floor. “A girl fated to live the same life you've endured—and now you took away the last of her family, like yours was.”

Katherine snaps her head around and snarls out, “Why, because I was once in her place? Because my family was murdered too? Because I recall your brother killed my family, and you didn’t lift a finger to stop him.”

The words are sharp and hit him like a landmine. Elijah quiets then, not sure what to say when she throws his crimes in his face, when she snaps and lets him know she’s not forgotten ( _she hasn’t forgiven either—she just put it away, made room for it_ ).

She is all out of compassion and empathy, all out of anything she’s supposed to feel for a doppelganger that comes to remind her that her life was never her own.

Really, she’s the least qualified person to care— _like I’m going to coddle poor innocent Elena._

“She can live with it. I did.”

 

***

 

So what if she killed her brother, really.

“It wasn’t like it was the first time,” she tells her at the diner, twirling her hair around her fingers casually, looking for the way Elena’s face changes, for the cracks. Rebekah is here, but Katherine tries to ignore her, without losing sight of her as well (it’s a delicate balancing act).

“It wasn’t the first time, or the third or the fifth—I lost count, actually,”

Katherine waits for her to react, but she doesn’t, not anymore, and she’s not really sure why she’s provoking her. She just want to see the mask slip ( _wants to take the mask back_ ).

Katherine keeps waiting for the flash of hatred, the desire for vengeance, but it doesn’t come.

( _she’d tell her that she thought it was possible he’d come back—too familiar with the way Jeremy always reared back to life for her—but it wouldn’t make a difference; it’s not like either of them care about forgiveness_ )

“I’ve moved on,” Elena says plainly. “Haven’t you? Or are you still staring at pictures of your dead family?”

Katherine tightens her fist and slap down whatever urges she has to reach over the table and rip something apart, ignores the laughter of Rebekah and the way Rebekah grabs her, grip tight on her wrist. Elena sees anyway, because Elena _knows_ , knows all the right places to poke and prod, hiding all the cards in her hands. “Isn’t that a little...pathetic?”

It’s not like she cares about forgiveness ( _she haven’t forgiven, so why should Elena?_ ).

 

***

 

She finds Elena in her room after she thought she’d gotten free of her—trying on her clothes, puckering up in front of a mirror as she puts on her lipstick and tugging at her ( _your_ ) skirt. There’s a pile of clothes on the floor, trailing around the bedroom and to the bathroom—her girlish dress from earlier, a jacket, a pair of dull white underwear that must be hers, and then her own outfits, two blouses, a pair of jeans, a skirt, as if she tried them all on and found them unsatisfactory.

She’s currently puffing up her hair, adding more curls and volume to it. She’s still wearing her heels.

Katherine images ripping them off her.

“Should I wait for Rebekah to step out of the shadows?” she asks, crossing her arms and narrowing her eyes, leaning against the bathroom door frame.

Elena turns her head deliberately slowly, cocks it to the side as she stares Katherine up and down, assessing ( _you’ve done this before_ ).

“What’s the matter, Katherine, scared of the shadows?” she says, laughing. It a carefree sound, in the most literal sense of the word, not a care in the world anymore—she killed her brother and now she’s yet another hedonistic monster, no better than anyone else. Katherine’s not sure if she should feel proud of herself or not—another in the long line of people she’s destroyed, another notch in her belt—or an irritated sense of boredom with it.

( _she’s not really sure she can truly take credit—she’d like to, but she knows better; if she didn’t kill Jeremy, someone else would have, and they’d still be here_ )

“I don’t know,” she steps closer. Elena folds her body inwards, arms crossed and legs parted just enough distance, so it’s clear she’s emulating Katherine’s pose. This close, she’s a full length mirror, showing all the cracks and edges that she hides so well (or maybe Katherine’s the mirror—she can’t tell anymore). “Should you?”

“Are you here for the cure?” She arches an eyebrow, mirrors back her sneer of a smile. “Because I’m not giving it to you.”

“I’m here because I’m _bored_ ,” Elena says, scoffing, but she doesn’t move away, steps closer even. Her hand hovers over Katherine’s face, before she twirls her fingers in one of her curls, rolling it around her fingers. It’s almost childlike, playful and curious ( _she remembers doing this, awhile ago, the first time the two of them spoke face to face_ ).

Katherine catches her wrist in her hand, squeezes tight until she has the pleasure of watching Elena wince, if only for a second, to see the crack in that mirror, even if the bones don’t quite break.

“If you’re here to kill me, it’s going to be a woefully one-sided fight. Wouldn’t even be fun.”

“Good thing I’m not here for that. Not for now, anyway,” she says, snatching her hand away, giggling. “Do you like it?” she says, gesturing to her clothes, tugging at her skirt and swishing it around. “How good is my impression?”

“Pitiful.”

“You know what I think?” She asks, getting in her face. “I think you’re just jealous that you’re not the only one anymore.”

She walks out the door, without a glance, and Katherine follows, because she knows she would want her to follow (and Stefan and Damon and all the rest), because she knows this playbook.

“I thought you hated me,” Katherine says.

“I don’t hate you. I don’t like you, either. I don’t feel anything, remember?”

They walk around her little town, Katherine trailing behind her and staying a few steps behind, keeping her in sight while Elena strides with perfect, casual arrogance, confident in her world. She feeds off one, two, three people on the way, right on the street, like anyone who crosses her path is fair game, laughing and giggling afterwards, not bothering to wipe her mouth—giddy over the ability to grab any person off the street, and feed and feed and feed, until there’s nothing left.

She’d join in, take a wrist, or the side of someone’s throat—Katherine’s tempted but she’s not letting her guard down, not going to turn her back to her just for some momentary pleasure.

(she doesn’t think elena _could_ kill her—too young and too impulsive and too reckless, enjoying her new found power far too much—but she didn’t live this long underestimating her enemies)

Elena leaves a trail of bodies down the street, like bread crumbs for anyone to find her, and it’s sloppy, messy, reckless (this is her town and Katherine want defend it, snarl over it like a territorial alley cat—these people were for me, _not you_ , but she can imagine what she’d say in return, in too perfect clarity—there’s nothing that belongs to either of us).

“Aren’t you going to join in?” she asks, a body in her arms (she’s still alive, but barely—a few more sips and she’s gone), her mouth red and sweet. She’s almost angry, when she says it, snapping at her. _How dare you not play with me._

( _no rules, remember_ )

Katherine sighs and roll her eyes. “It’s not a rush if they’re all compelled, Elena, it’s just playing with your food.”

“Then compel them to be scared,” she snaps, shoving the body at her feet. A bit of blood gets on her shoes—not heels this time, boots, the kind she’d use to stomp on someone’s feet and break them. “Compel them to be scared again, c’mon.”

“Why don’t _you_ do it? They think you’re me anyway. Surely you can pull it off?”

“God, you’re boring,” Elena shoots back instead, gritting her teeth in disgust. She drops the body and stalks over to her. Elena’s gait is the same as hers, one foot over the other, tiger-like—mimicking her, mocking her.

“You’re so boring. I thought you were supposed to be _fun_ , you’re _Katherine_ , you’re supposed to be better than this. the least you can do is provide some entertainment, but you’re just a scared old woman, aren’t you? You’ve been running so long, you’re not sure what else to do anymore.”

Katherine laughs, _because who the fuck does she think she is_. “What were you going to do, take notes? Record me and watch it over and over until you think you have down? Think if you hang around me long enough, you can become me?”

“It’s not about _becoming_ you,” she says, sneering—like it’s obvious, or it should be, and Katherine should have picked up on it by now (this used to scare Elena, and now it scares Katherine). “I’m already _better_ , there’s nothing to become—”

“So this is a script for you to follow, then—”

“What else is there?” she says, in a soft kind of low voice, and rushes at Katherine, not quite dive tackling her, but shoving her into an alleyway. It takes her by surprise, even though it really shouldn’t, and she ends up pressed up against the brick wall, digging uncomfortably into her back, the rank scent of alley filling her nostrils. Elena’s arm holds, pins her there by her neck, Elena in her face, blood still dripping from her lips and head cocked like an animal.

“Losing your touch?” Elena asks, savage glee on her face. “Just a copy of a copy of a copy, right? Aren’t you role model, then? Isn’t that what you wanted me to do, right? ‘If you’re smart, you’ll do that same.’” she says, mocking in her tone. “Unless I decide there can only be one, then, bam, no more copy.”

It’s stupidly easy to break her wrist (Elena doesn’t scream, just flinches as Katherine twists the bones and hears the crack, like it’s annoying, an inconvenience—she’s seen this expression before), when she’s this close—the game changes when Rebekah’s not there playing bodyguard—and she shoves her back up against the opposite wall in the tiny alley, her hand closing around Elena’s fragile throat and squeezing.

“Not so brave without your pet original, Elena? You should have brought her with you,” she says, watching while Elena struggles and shakes under her grip, her eyes turning red and angry, teeth sharp and bared even as she whimpers—vulnerable and fragile and raging with it. “Should I snap your neck, or rip out your spine this time?”

Katherine thinks she’ll rip her windpipe out, just to watch it grow back, watch her try to cough and sputter on the ground in human muscle memory—then maybe do it again. And just when Katherine digs in—presses her nails in until blood wells and spills and embeds itself under her fingernails—and Elena surges forward, instead of trying to pull away.

She thinks Elena’s going to bite her, to feed and Katherine tilts her head back to let her— _vervaine, Elena, I’m on vervaine, remember, you shouldn’t forget_ —but instead she plants a kiss on her.

It’s a wet kiss, bloody and opened mouth and just this side of sloppy—she smears blood and her lipstick all over Katherine’s mouth, and she doesn’t want to admit, but she’s a little surprised, a little impressed, and a little annoyed she didn’t think about this sooner ( _but she has thought about it before, watching her when she human, when she didn’t know she existed, or after she had her aunt stabbed or in the cave to pass the time, thought about her scandalized face if she slipped her hand under her skirt_ ). She can feel her smiling against her lips and this irritates her, too.

Katherine doesn’t take her hand off her throat, but places the other one behind her head, pulls her closer, until her hand slinks around the back of her neck. There’s not enough room for space in between their bodies when Elena presses tight against her. Standing like this, Katherine thinks she might melt into her, or she melt into Elena, that the two of them might blur, and if she tries hard enough, there may be only one of them by the end of the day.

Katherine grabs a fistful of her Elena’s hair and pulls it hard. A whimpering sound threatens to escape Elena’s lips, but she bites down on Katherine’s bottom lip instead—not hard enough to draw blood, even if she can feel her fangs when she runs her tongue over them (Elena likes that, when she does it—a soft, nearly imperceptible shudder goes through her—but Katherine already knew that).

“Salvatores not satisfying you?” she says when Elena pauses, cocking an eyebrow.

Her immediate response is a growl as she pulls away, like she poked at a raw nerve. “They’re _boring_ ,” she snarls. “All they ever talk about how _compassionate_ I was, how _good_ I was, be the old you, Elena,” she says, contempt dripping off her voice. “Don’t make this boring.”

“I could have told you they get boring,” Katherine laughs.

When Elena puts her mouth on hers again, it feels like she might just devour her and swallow her up, like that’s what she’s trying to do, to climb inside her (for a minute, Katherine thinks of a fire, in her hair and sizzling on the floor, and she’s aroused and defensive and angry all at once).

She opens her legs wider, just on instinct, and she finally removes her hand off Elena’s throat to stroke it instead, run down her fingers down the side of her jugular, her collarbone (Elena sighs again; she knew she’d like that), down to the valley of her breasts (another soft moan, tiny, barely perceptible—just a hiccup in Elena’s mouth as she sucks on her tongue and lip).

“I killed your brother,” Katherine says while wrapping her hands around her hips, trying to push and poke at more nerves, see what else she can dig out. She shoves Elena’s skirt down just low enough to expose skin, not remove, so Katherine can dig her nails into bare skin and _oh_ , no underwear—just skirt and skin.

Elena stops kissing her, but doesn’t move away, barely even blinks, just stares blankly, speaking a different language. She shrugs. “I’m aware. Doesn’t mean I can't fuck you,” she says, drawing out the word like she relishes it. Elena nudges her nose against Katherine’s cheek, her throat— _smelling her_ —and it’s deceptively sweet sensation, like satin wrapped around a blade. She wraps her arms around Katherine’s neck, the way she would a lover, and smiles against her cheek. “You just make room for it, right?”

Elena moves her head back, gives them some space and distance, enough so she can run her hands through Katherine’s hair—feeling and touching the curls like she’s examining them, toys with them. In the dark, their hair could be exactly the same. She doesn’t say anything while she lets Katherine slide her hand under her skirt, feeling her thigh against her hand (her skin is warm from all the blood she’s drank, heated and hot, and almost alive, almost).

“So what are you trying to do here? You’re not going to kill me like this, you know. Trying to bury the old you? The one who’d care about littlest Gilbert—”

Elena tugs her hair, hard, would pull Katherine’s head all the way back and bare her throat if she had the strength for that.

“Don’t talk like them,” she hisses, her eyes flashing brightly. “There’s no _old me_ , there’s just me.”

Katherine giggles, because it’s funny, really, it’s funny and depressing all at once. “Like what? Like you’re not some scared girl, building up your armor?”

“Is that supposed to phase me? I don’t care, Katherine, I don’t care about any of it.” She shoves her hand down in Katherine’s pants before she can respond, pressing her fingers over her silk underwear, pressing against her wet folds through the fabric.

“How about we make a deal?” she says, eyes all lit up in a sort of twisted glee, smiling a sharp tooth grin, curling her fingers in and drawing a gasp out of Katherine as she says it. “I make you come hard—I make you _scream_ —and you get on your knees for me.”

“Selling yourself rather high there, aren’t you?” she responds. She doesn’t push Elena’s fingers away, but leans closer, inches her legs slightly further apart, ready to enjoy the ride. “I have five hundred years of experience, Elena, you’re not that special.”

“I’ve done this to myself, which means I can do this to you,” she says, pressing her fingers inwards while her hand slides down Katherine’s back, with soft delicate fingers and the hint of sharp nails. “It means I know what you like,” she replies in tandem with Katherine’s groan, mocking the cadence of the noise she makes, so it sounds like their voices are overlapping each other, like a recording on top of another recording. “You’re just not that special, Katherine, your body the same as mine, and everything else too,” she says, then there’s that cruel edge of laughter in her voice, one Katherine’s heard a thousand times.

“So do it,” Katherine sighs, pushing back. “You’re talking too much, get me off then.”

She doesn’t waste time after that. Elena shoves Katherine’s pants and underwear down for better access, her fingers sliding in slick and easy. Katherine tries not to make a sound, keep her mouth shut, but that’s not fun, really, trying to hold back—easier and better reveal in the pleasure and she lets herself make a soft moan instead, as Elena slowly curls and uncurls two fingers inside her, plants her hands against the wall behind Elena, cornering her there, but Elena doesn’t seem to care. She watches her, the concentration on her face, the way she tugs and bites at her own lip, taking in the sight of her own image fingering her open.

“You’re wet,” Elena says, looking down between them where her fingers slip inside Katherine’s body, a note of surprise in her tone that makes Katherine think of how young she is for a moment. “You’re really wet, I can feel my fingers sticking to you, don’t even need foreplay—did you get wet from kissing me? Shoving you around? Or was watching me feed?”

“I’m just a narcissist,” she smiles, rolling her body into it, her hips canting into Elena’s hands. “You’ve done this before haven’t you?”

She grabs Elena by the chin, twists her head up to force her gaze, poking her nails in and making little indents in the flesh of her chin. “Who was it? Caroline? She seems like the type. Or was it Bonnie? Rebekah?”

Elena answers by pushing against her clit then, lets her thumb rub in slow circles until Katherine gasps, her fingers still moving in and out, watches as Elena licks her lips.

“Oh, so was her, right? Do you eat her cunt out in exchange for her services? I imagine she tastes very bitter.”

“Not that different from you, I suppose,” she says, snapping her head away from Katherine’s hands, twisting her fingers inside her almost viciously, nails scraping inside her unpleasantly. But Elena pushes down on her thumb on her clit, more pressure, harder than before, sending shivery sensations up and down her spine—three fingers in now and that’s not enough, really.

“If you’ve done this before, shouldn’t you know it’s going to take more than finger fucking to get me off?” She digs her nails into her shoulder, arches her body upwards. “What a shame”

Elena pauses for a minute, stills her hand movements, her fingers, deliberating and that’s worse, but Katherine won’t beg.

She waits until Elena rips off her top quicker than she can see with one hand, just grabs on to the material and twists, tugging and ripping her blouse off. It hangs in tatters and Katherine still has her bra but Elena maneuvers the straps and cups haphazardly out of the way, so her bra hangs under her breasts awkward, exposed, very nearly naked on the street.

For a second, Elena just stares, mouth slightly open and lips parted, eyes raking her up and down, like she’s never seen Katherine before, or at least, not from this angle. It makes her look younger, like she’s at a different angle as well.

Katherine smirks and straightens her back. “Well?”

It’s enough to get her going, to get her moving, and the fingers in between Katherine’s legs begin to move again—twisting and scissoring inside her cunt, pushing up against her to make her squirm—while she lowers her head down to her breast. Elena kisses her nipple at first, almost tentatively, wrapping her lips around and dragging her tongue against her skin.

Katherine sighs and shudders. There’s a strange kind of softness in this, an experimental tenderness, before Elena skips all other steps and she bites down hard enough to make her yelp. She grabs Elena by the hair and tugs her head back, hard, finds Elena’s grinning face staring up at her.

“What? Don’t you like it rough? You can take a little pain, can’t you?”

“You can bite,” Katherine pants, “but no fangs—you wouldn’t like the vervaine in my blood anyway.”

Elena makes a face, mirroring Katherine’s expression, but agrees and places her mouth on her breast again, and she likes the way her mouth moves in tandem with her thumb rubbing her clit, both thumb and tongue making circles, alternating hard and soft (almost, not quite, not quite there). Her fingers move considerably slower now— _not that experienced, then, if she can’t do both in perfect rhythm at the same time_ —but she knows how to arch them, knows the right kind of pressure to press, knows when to go fast and slow it down.

Katherine almost thinks Elena even likes the way she doesn’t let go of the back of her head and tangles her fingers in her curls, if by the way she hums is any indication. A sharp possessive thrill runs through her spine at that (possessive of that face and that mouth and everything, even when they both know Katherine has no right to be, neither of them do).

Elena knows all the right moves, the right amount of pressure on her breast and nipple to make her gasp, pant, and moan rather than simply cause pain—knows when to pull back from the pleasure on her clit to keep her from going over, knows just how rough to be with the three fingers moving in and out of her, twisting and crooking.

“More, c’mon,” Katherine says, pressing down on her head. “I thought you were going to make me scream.”

Elena works in her other hand, her fingers running along her slick folds and massaging while she pumps her other fingers, while her mouth sucks and nips, but it’s more the sight of it that makes her come at last. Katherine can’t, won't take her eyes off her and it’s not just because she’ll kill her when she isn’t looking, it’s because it’s simply a breathtaking rare sight, like an erotic funhouse mirror.

Her nails dig in too hard on Elena’s scalp, when she comes, hard enough to draw blood. Katherine makes a noise like a loud throaty keen, verging on a groan, throwing her head back (but never taking her eyes off her), her cunt throbbing and twitching around Elena’s fingers (she stares at Elena’s face when she notices her orgasm, some mixture of wonder and smugness, some combination of the two of them).

(she doesn’t have to make a sound, really—she’s done this enough times so she can do this completely in silence—but she doesn’t want to stay silent for this)

“I win,” Elena says, practically purring the words out and withdrawing her fingers. They’re shiny, wet and slick with fluid, and she doesn’t bother to wipe them off. There’s a smug glow on her face, head tilting to the side as she preens, all pride and a job well done, but she licks her lips, naked hunger on her face and eyes, even if her fangs have receded. She doesn’t push Katherine down, but she places her hands on her bare shoulders, places pressure and she know what she wants. “What’s my prize?”

“Oh? I wouldn’t call that screaming.”

“Close enough,” she says, planting a kiss that’s harsh on both ends, full of teeth and tongue and snarls, and when she pulls away and urges her down again; Katherine goes willingly.

She doesn’t mind doing this, really—sex is sex and she’s curious too, wants to savor the rare enough delicacy of eating out her doppleganger. Katherine pulls her pants up before (Elena scoffs when she does this— _I want them off_ , she says, _we’re not done_ , but Katherine refuses to get on her bare knees on the dirty gravel).

“Suck it up,” she says, slowly moves her hand up her thigh and Elena gives a grunt of impatience, too slow for her right now, but she doesn’t protest—she can feel her eyes bearing down on her, as if to say _move it along_ , but Katherine won’t listen. She decides not to pull her skirt up, just tear a slit in it, all the way from the hem to nearly the band (it’s not a long way to go, all things considered), almost ripping it completely apart.

“It’s your skirt,” Elena says, shrugging, spreading her legs wider. She hikes up a leg on her shoulder, pushing herself closer and urging Katherine forward until the bend of her knee is resting on her shoulder, until she’s almost nose to cunt. She rolls her body then, pushing her cunt closer to her in a display of hunger and desire.

Katherine takes a second just to breathe her in (ignoring elena’s impatience, the way she whines and growls, places her hand on the back of her head, but she’s not strong enough to force her—all overeager and trying to hide it), the smell of her heady and pungent (and like her, exactly like her, same body chemistry)—to take in the sight before her, familiar and new all at once. She’s almost perfectly shaved— _modern sensibilities, Katherine thinks, and strangely glad for the differences, no matter how small_ —with hair just starting to grow back in, and her folds parted open already, pink and wet enough to see at a distance—as if she couldn’t smell her arousal from a distance—her clit visible under the hood when she spreads her further. Katherine moves her fingers from Elena’s thigh to push against her folds and around the edge of her, smearing her wetness around her fingertips, before she pushes two inside her.

Elena moans, breath catching in her throat when she lightly curls her fingers, her cunt squeezing around them as she finds a sweet spot that makes her twitch.

“Do you always get wet this easily?” she asks. “You shouldn't have really been throwing stones about that, Elena, not when you just really get off on finger fucking your mirror image.”

“I want you,” Elena says, panting, heavy and breathy, frustration in her voice, her fingers curling around her hair as she arches her hips up, pushing her cunt into her face, “to use your tongue”

She ignores her, kisses her belly instead, laughs against her skin while she curls her fingers in her again ( _Elena doesn’t make a noise—what she does is more damning, goes quiet and still for a second before she remembers to breathe_ ), then pulls them out.

Katherine reaches up and holds them out to her lips, her fingers hovering over them, Elena’s eyes narrowing and eyebrow arching.

“Tit for tat,” Katherine says. “If you want tongue, I get yours, too.”

She glares and Katherine thinks she might not do it—thinks of shoving them in her mouth, then wonders if she’ll bite down on them if she does that (Katherine thinks she might be okay with that)—but Elena opens her mouth and sucks her fingers in. She grabs her wrist and holds on tight while she licks and sucks, dragging her tongue in between her fingers and knuckles, licking the fluid off. It’s not quite a show, but the enthusiasm more than makes up for it, catches Katherine off-guard.

“You like that? I’m sure it’s familiar, you can’t tell me you haven’t tasted yourself at some point.”

She laughs; It’s not a nice laugh. “Just eat me out.”

Katherine nips at her hip for that, fangs and all, hard enough to bruise, but she turns back to her cunt, debating on what to do. She settles on licking up and down Elena’s folds, running her tongue over the heated, soft skin and swirling it around, holding her open with one hand. The taste of her is familiar, thick and heavy. Katherine very carefully does not lick her clit, avoids that place, just to feel Elena squirm.

Elena grabs her by the hair, pulls hard, even if she’s just pushing her body at her, trying to roll her hips and move her body, searching for more friction. She’s still holding on to Katherine’s wrist, almost too tight, and she uses it to maneuver it to her breast instead, palming herself with her hand over her blouse and then slipping it under.

“C’mon,” she says, with another gasp as Katherine’s tongue skates just by her clit, never quite reaching, teasing while she lightly circles around her breast, tugs at her nipple. “You can do better than that, can’t you?”

Katherine smiles, nods, and sinks her teeth into the side of Elena’s inner thigh.

“What the fuck are you doing?” she gasps, edge of pain in her voice that tempers when Katherine finally touches her clit, very lightly, hardly any pressure, but enough to make Elena twitch—though she’s not sure if it’s from the brief stimulation or her teeth in her thigh, the blood running down her leg. Katherine keeps expecting Elena to pull away, pull her off, _attack_ , but when she glances up, Elena is staring oddly, her head tilted and curious, eyes glazed over as she stares at her own blood.

“Didn’t anyone ever tell you?” Katherine asks after she gets a taste, her mouth shiny, red on her lips, lapping at the blood that still flowed from the wound and feeling Elena shiver. She likes that, too. “The femoral artery is the best place to feed from. The blood flows easier. No one taught you?” She laughs and Elena bristles. “Damon’s never done it? Stefan?”

“Get back to it,” she says, whine in her throat, nudging her with knee.

Katherine removes her hand away from Elena’s breast and fingers her while running her tongue up and around, her body hot and trembling, feeling how she squeezes tight, open and close. Katherine can tell she’s frustrated from the lack of friction on her clit, but she enjoys Elena’s insistence too much—her moans and her sighs and her hands tightening in tune with her body, fingers clamping shut on her shoulders and nails clawing in. She never strays into begging, always finagling her instead, questioning her skill, but she can feel Elena ask with her body, her groans and the soft sighs of _more_.

Elena very nearly screams (Katherine sees her bite down on it, lip splitting) when she finally laps at her clit, sucking softly on it and gradually increasing the pressure.

It doesn’t take long for Elena to come after that; she can’t hold in the sounds she makes. When she comes, it’s not as practiced—her entire body shudders, hitting her everywhere at once, her fingers leaving temporary marks and bruises on Katherine, a loud moaning that dies into a whimper. Her body never stops shaking, not for a long time, while her cunt pulses around Katherine’s fingers as she tries to pull them out, throbbing around her with heat.

After, it’s strange. Katherine looks up at her, Elena’s hair an utter mess and sticking to her face with sweat, her body’s trembles dying slowly. She doesn’t quite slump against the wall but leans on it for support, blowing hair out of her face. Very carefully, she removes her legs from her shoulder.

Katherine doesn’t stand up right away, too busy staring, and trying to process what she’s seeing (for a minute, she don’t feel like Katherine and she doesn’t feel Elena—she feels very strange, like she’s about to fall through a wall, floating in the air and not really here).

Katherine stands up, wipes her mouth and chin, sliding her bra back on even if her blouse is a lost cause. She breathes in and out as she stares at Elena, mirroring her movements, the rise and fall of her chest. Right now, like this, Katherine can pick out tiny differences—the way Elena collects herself is different, more obvious, and the shine of her eyes brighter, like she’s not used to this. Elena stands up straight, following (mimicking) her cue, and tries to smooth her skirt down but it hangs off her hips to the side instead.

“Your skirt’s ruined,” Katherine says.

Elena shrugs. “Well, it’s _your_ skirt. Your shirt’s ruined too. And I don’t care. I’ll just eat and steal someone else’s skirt.”

Katherine laughs because of the way she said it, that air of perfect control and haughtiness that she stole from her—laugh because she understands what she’s doing here.

“What?”

“What you’re doing? Dressing up in other people’s clothes, so you don’t have to be you. Like you’re not some sad girl who lost her family.”

“I’m not sad,” Elena hisses. Katherine can’t be sure if she struck a nerve or not, too disaffected but just a vague hint of anger. “Not anymore. Now I just...am.”

“I think you protest too much. The switch turns back _on_. Not now, but...eventually. How are you going to feel in a hundred years when you switch back unexpectedly and you realize you fucked your brother’s killer?” she asks, perfectly pleasant, running a finger down Elena’s collarbone and she still shivers, still riding the aftershocks. “You still want to fuck me.”

“I’m glad you killed him,” Elena says, after a long pause, bland and empty. There’s no change in her expression except a hardening of the eyes. “Someone was going to do it eventually. Might as well be you.”

She walks away then, struts off into the world with her ruined skirt and mussed hair, off to find the nearest prey. She turns her back and doesn’t look back. Katherine doesn’t follow this time.

Elena is lying—and not, at the same time (it’s a delicate balancing act and they’ve both gotten so good at it).


End file.
